


Don't Know Where The Lights Are Taking Us

by TheFlirtMeister



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Formula 1, Formula One, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6967096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in the middle of a press conference when the news comes in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Know Where The Lights Are Taking Us

They're in the middle of a press conference when the news comes in, Pietro Maximoff rambling about the dynamics of the new car when Sharon Carter comes bursting into the room, out of breath and with tears in her eyes. There's a commotion behind her, she's obviously ignored security protocol of 'don't fucking enter the press conference room', but she's Sharon Carter, and she can get away with anything.

“I just-” She interrupts, and Sam raises his head from where he'd been idly wishing that they could have team mates in the conference, because he's bored and he wants to annoy T'Challa by quietly meowing under his breath. He's also feeling slightly smug about the new car, a vibranium made engine that nobody else can beat.

“The news just came in.” Sharon says, staring intently at Steve, “Peggy, she just passed away. In her sleep.”

The whole room falls silent, as if Sharon somehow managed to suck all the air out of it with just those words. Peggy Carter was the first female racing driver, first ever female champion, and god did she kick ass doing it. She's one of the most respected drivers in the whole business of F1, and everyone was both amazed and slightly terrified of her.

Steve stands up, clearly without thinking, and Sam winces, because Peggy was Steve's mentor and they cared for each other and Steve even didn't turn up to a GP weekend recently because her health had deteriorated so badly, preferring instead to stay by her bedside.

“No.” He says, eyes flicking from Sharon to the door she's just come through. “No,-”

“I'm sorry.” Sharon says, sounding desperate, and Sam can tell she's on the verge of tears but she doesn't want to show it, doesn't want to seem weak in front of them all. “I'm so sorry.”

Jessica Jones clears her throat from the press scrum, causing everyone to turn at her. Sam doesn't know much about her, just that she's a journalist who could probably take on an F1 car if it pissed her off.

“Press Conference over.” She says firmly, snapping her notebook shut, and nobody dares argue with her.

The driver's aren't directed where to actually go next, the conference having ended about thirty minutes early. Steve has disappeared, Bucky too, obviously with him, and Sam circles the room once, twice, because he doesn't know what to do. Normally he'd hang out with them, he likes to maintain a friendship with the other drivers off the track, but they've gone, and now he's lost.

He decides to go back to the garage instead, easily slipping past journalists and photographers who might want to question him about Peggy's death. Sam's met Peggy many times, and she was always kind to him, asking him questions about the car, and his karting, and asking about his family. She was always more Steve's friend than Sam's though, and Sam feels bad that he isn't grieving. Or at least, he isn't grieving yet.

“Mr Wilson!”

Sam turns, and then glares at Miles Morales who is holding a camera up to his face. The kid is young, painfully young to be in the world of Formula 1, and Sam sighs heavily.

“No photographs.” He tells him, and Morales visibly deflates.

“But-”

“No.” Sam says firmly, and then pushes him away gently. “Go. I'm sure Tony Stark is somewhere around here, he'll be happy to be photographed.”

“Do you think so?” Morales asks, brightening up again, and Sam nods.

“Yup. Now go, before you lose him!” He replies, and Morales scurries off, his camera bag hitting his leg as he runs.

Sam sighs heavily, running a hand through his short cropped hair, and then continues his journey towards his own garage, where he'll be with the safety of his own thoughts.

...

When Sam walks into the hospitality area, T'Challa is stretched out across the sofa, scrolling through his phone. His brow is furrowed in concentration, as if focussing on something incredibly important, and giving off the vibe of Do Not Disturb. Sam knows, however, that T'Challa is actually addicted to Candy Crush, and plays it whenever he has the slightest lick of free time.

Sam drops down into the seat beside him, and T'Challa moves his feet to rest comfortably in Sam's lap. There's a moment of silence, T'Challa swiping on his phone, Sam staring blankly at the floor before T'Challa speaks.

“No puns for me today?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at Sam. “What's the matter with you?”

“Peggy Carter died.” Sam replies, and it feels weird for the words to come out of his mouth, no matter how many times he's quietly discussed it with Steve and others. “I don't really feel like it right now.”

T'Challa pauses and then swings his legs off Sam, straightening upright and switching off his phone. “I am sorry for your loss.” He says seriously, and Sam sighs, leaning back against the seat.

“Thanks.” He replies, “It's just- It's not my loss? I don't feel like it is anyway. It's Steve's loss, and Natasha's loss, and all the other girls she inspired.”

“Doesn't mean you still cannot be sad about it.” T'Challa tells him. “A death is always traumatic. I would know.”

Sam winces, because T'Challa knows more than anything about traumatic death, his father killed in a spectating accident a couple of years ago. “I know man, I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.” T'Challa pats Sam on the back of the hand. “Has Steve gone to see her?”

“I think so.” Sam replies, “Bucky too. I'm not sure who else.”

“Will anything happen to the race schedule?” T'Challa asks, and Sam shrugs.

“Probably not, unless Pierce will get more money out of it. Why, do you think anything would happen?”

“I don't think so. Will there be celebrations for her death?” T'Challa asks, and Sam frowns.

“Celebrations?” He repeats, and T'Challa pauses.

“Is that the right word?” He thinks hard, and Sam tries hard not to smile, “Celebrations? A party of some sort, looking back over Peggy's life?”

“A remembrance service.” Sam corrects gently. “I hope so, she deserves it. All she worked for, all she created.”

“She was an amazing woman.” T'Challa says kindly, “I was very honoured to meet her.”

“We all were.” Sam replies, and sighs, because what the hell happens now?

…

The race goes ahead of course. The funeral is arranged for the following race-free weekend, and there's a minute of silence before the race itself, Steve standing beside Sam and quietly sniffing. Sam doesn't know how to comfort him, he doesn't know if he's actually allowed to show affection to a 'rival' driver, but luckily Bucky is there on Steve's right to pat his arm in a comforting fashion and glare at anyone who stares.

“Have a good race.” Sam says to Steve when the minute of silence is over, and Steve nods sharply, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“And the same to you.” He replies and then holds out his free arm for Sam to shake. “Give my best to T'Challa.”

T'Challa has pole position this weekend, Sam following closely behind in 2nd place. Surprisingly it's Bruce whose in 3rd, suddenly going insane out on track and beating all his previous competition in a performance that his team hope he will repeat again today.

“Will do.” Sam promises, shaking Steve's hand, and praying that no accidents happen in this race, because that's all they need.

Sam has to hurry back to the garage in double quick time, worrying that he's going to be late, but luckily even T'Challa isn't in the car yet, instead leaning against the wall and surveying his surroundings.

“Steve wishes you luck.” Sam says as greeting, and T'Challa doesn't reply, barely even moving. “T'Chall-”

“I heard.” T'Challa interrupts. “I don't care what Steve Rogers says, or what he hopes to achieve today.”

“Fair enough.” Sam shrugs, because he doesn't want to get into a fight, today of all days. “You think you're going to kick his ass in today's race?”

“Obviously.” T'Challa replies, and glances at Sam. “I expect you to do the same as well. I want to see great things from you.”

“Wouldn't dream of anything else.” Sam grins, and finally gets the faintest of smiles from T'Challa.

…

They win that day. Sam is in first place, barely able to believe it, standing on the podium soaked in sweat and breathless. His race suit is sticking to his skin, probably showing off more than the crowd bargained for, but they don't actually seem to care, enthusiastically screaming his name.

T'Challa is beside him, looking perfectly poised as he waves regally to the crowd, and also very attractive with his skin shining with sweat. T'Challa is the only person that Sam knows who actually looks good sweaty, and Sam knows this for a fact. Sam's seen T'Challa after the most gruelling gym workouts, and the man's still managed to look gorgeous.

“Can you fucking believe this?!” Scott Lang exclaims, who is sadly on the podium with them after Bruce crashed his car into a chicane. “3rd place!”

“I am so very glad you don't have a microphone on you.” Sam tells him, patting him on the shoulder forcefully in the hope that he'll stop talking. “Now shut up.”

“Alright!” Scott says happily, and dances on the spot like he has ants down his race suit. “When can I pour champagne on you? Can I pour it into your open mouths like the cool drivers do?”

“Never.” Sam says firmly, and glances over at T'Challa, who offers him a look that could curdle milk. Sam knows that T'Challa doesn't give a fuck about Scott Lang, or any of the other drivers. In fact, T'Challa only seems to care about Sam, but that's probably because they're team mates.

“I will get Sam with champagne first, don't worry.” T'Challa promises, and Sam scoffs.

“Like hell you will.” He tells him, and T'Challa smirks.

“Just you wait little bird.” He says condescendingly, his tone of voice light.

Sam snorts under his breath at that, which causes T'Challa to smile, and then jumps when the American National Anthem starts to play.

“Still doesn't sound right.” T'Challa murmurs, just loud enough for Sam to hear, and Sam shakes his head, looking up at the sky where Peggy Carter is watching over him.

“Shush kitty.” He whispers, and gets ready to spray T'Challa in the face with his bottle of champagne.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to comment if you liked this! :*


End file.
